Stupid fucking drawings for your stupid fucking eyes.

I had a daydream today about putting on an art show.  I’d call it, “stupid fucking drawings for your stupid fucking eyes.”  It would be full of drawings done when I’m high and it could be accompanied with writing I’ve done in my most desperate and volatile times.  In my dream I become the toast of the town.   The reality however is quite different; I drew for pleasure for the first time in months  yesterday.  I went to my local blenz café and was shocked by my inability to draw a satisfactory street scene.  My lines were unconfident and there was a real clinical look to everything.  Not to mention the complete lack of style displayed.  And I don’t mean style in the superficial, egotistical sense of the word; I’ve long since abandoned my teenaged dreams of having a recognizable “personal style.”  When I say style I mean flavor, I want to draw like a professional but I also want it to have nuanced little graphic cheats and for everything to appear effortless and organic.  Even when I’m drawing something as mundane as a street corner, I’d like for there to be a unified visual statement in the drawing.  It’s fine if the statement is a stolen one too,  I’m not proud. Writing about art is STUPID.  I tried to make up for the lack of life in my street drawings by throwing in the usual cast of cartoon mainstays, these are usually bunnies with pig noses, turtles, sexy girls who kind of look like they have down syndrome and cute witches and clowns.  None of these old favorites succeeded in making me feel like I was worth a damn.   As I was drawing I became more and more interested in the conversation of the old men sitting next to me, from what I could gather these three old guys were bachelors and they were gossiping about their friend who had recently scored with a much younger philipino woman.  I started to feel lonely enough that I wanted them to talk to me, but also, anxious enough that I didn’t want to have to brave whatever confusion the generation gap might cause.  One of the old guys did talk to me for a second, he kind of apologized for flicking cigarette ash in my direction and for some inexplicable reason my reaction was also to apologize.  I may be the meekest human being on the face of the planet.